


Lull

by GoodJanet



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Banter, Epic Bromance, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:54:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8550619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodJanet/pseuds/GoodJanet
Summary: The president and his right hand man have a heart to heart in the Oval Office.





	

They had been laughing all morning at the tweets that were rolling in. Page after page of out-of-context pictures putting them in situations where Barack had to hold Joe back from releasing all holy hell on their successors. It was the first time they had laughed all week. But eventually, there is a lull. They come up against several posts they’ve seen already, and it gives them time to breathe, to think, to let reality set back in.

Barack closes out of the app and locks Joe’s phone—he’s not allowed to have a real one, after all—and he sets it screen-down on his desk. The same desk FDR and JFK and LBJ all sat behind. The same desk that heard those long-forgotten eighteen minutes and felt the white hot touch of a lit cigar. The same desk where they first planned who to put in SEAL Team 6. The same desk he’d be giving up in just a matter of weeks.

Barack sighs. His head falls into his hands, propped up only by his elbows balancing on his knees.

Joe, who has been watching him from his perch on the edge of the desk, cocks his head to the side. He knows that sigh. His president is hurting.

“Sir?” he asks.

He reaches out a hand and puts it on his president’s shoulder; Joe knows he’s one of the few who are allowed to do that. Barack doesn’t move.

_Oh shit…_

“Mr. President.”

He says it with an authority in his voice that he does not feel, but it has the desired effect. Barack looks up. Joe would swear he had gotten greyer in just this past week alone. He looks at him with tired, defeated eyes…Something the press has never and will never see.

Barack reaches up a hand to cover the one still resting on his shoulder. The corner of his president’s lips quirk, and it’s almost enough for Joe to be able to pretend like this is normal. That nearly sobbing in the Oval Office was normal for them.

“I’m alright, Joe,” he assures him.

“Bullshit,” Joe says.

And Barack’s real smile appears. Joe’s hand doesn’t move away until the president’s does first.

“Joe, I don’t know what I’ll do without you. I really don’t.”

Joe leans back on the desk a bit, trying to get comfortable. He sputters a thanks, having not expected a compliment. He rubs the back of his neck as he tries to think of something to say back.

“We could always stage a coup.”

Barack snorts. Against his better judgement, Joe guesses. But it was worth it to see his president laugh, especially when he knows he’s the reason why. The president composes himself.

“You know you’ve gotta behave yourself, now. I’m not always gonna be there to tell people you didn’t mean it.”

"Who says I didn't mean it?"

" _Joe._ "

It’s a gentle slap on the wrist, and it’s one he’s heard a million times before. It’s also one Joe is choosing to ignore. Barack would always be his president, but that didn’t mean he was gonna sit idly by while people got hurt. Now _that_ just wouldn’t be right.

“I don’t know if you know this, Joe, but I can tell when you’re not listening to me.”

Biden blushes at being caught; then he grins ruefully and shrugs it off. Barack finds it endearing, much like how he finds most things his vice president does.

“Guilty as charged,” Joe states with all his usual brash boyishness.

Barack playfully shakes his head as if to say, _What am I going to do with you?_

But then he stands up and stretches, and Joe follows suit. Joe hops down from the desk and does some stretching of his own. He grimaces a little.

“You okay?” Barack asks, straightening back up.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright. Getting too old for this stuff.”

_Too damn old and too damn tired._

“Come on,” the president says, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “There’s a pint of ice cream in the freezer with your name on it.”

Barack can see the older man’s eyes light up at the prospect.

“Well that’s just about the best offer I’ve had all day.”

They exit the Oval Office, and Secret Security locks it behind them. And for the first time in eight years, there’s something about the finality of the blot sliding into place that sticks with Joe all the way down to the kitchens.


End file.
